


"I would've liked that"

by LanderAvenue



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: "What are we?" - the fic, Dramatic Death Scene, Final Conversations, M/M, Reluctant Mutual Pining, fellas is it gay to repeatedly hook up with the cop who is single-handedly dismantling your cult?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanderAvenue/pseuds/LanderAvenue
Summary: John is mortally wounded when Nick Rye shoots him out of the sky after a botched atonement. Deputy Rook is the only one to make it to his side before he passes, and they can finally speak candidly about what they had and what they could have been in another life.
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	"I would've liked that"

**Author's Note:**

> Me, rolling up to the fandom two years late with a one-shot: “Is anyone still here?”
> 
> So I’ve been meaning to practice writing shorter pieces because to date I’ve only written +100k multi-chaps; there’s a time and place for those, but not everyone’s got the patience for that, myself included. This idea popped into my head and I banged it out quick, so I hope you enjoy a small helping of angst and lamenting what could-have-been.

_“Warning…… Warning…… War-“_

“Yeah, I know, I _know!,”_ John snapped, hating how obviously panicked his voice sounded, even to himself. He gave the dashboard a good smack, as if that would stop the automated voice or do anything at all to remedy the situation. Watching the needle on the fuel gauge drop in real time was concerning; a fuel line must’ve gotten severed in that last attack and at this rate he had maybe a minute of flight left before he’d be forced to attempt a landing.

It was then that he noticed he had just inadvertently broadcasted that little outburst on the public channel. A gloating voice accosted his ears shortly after.

“Having some trouble there, Johnny boy?” It was a wonder at all that Nick Rye managed to drag himself into a plane, let alone had the upper hand in this dogfight; it was hardly an hour ago John had carved out a not-insignificant chunk of flesh out of the man’s chest.

“Fuck off, Nick!,” he bit back. He swept the cloudless sky with his eyes to get his bearings. There, at 3 o’clock to the right, flying along the same heading was that ugly little yellow plane. A small plume of black smoke trailed behind it, so at least John had managed to score _some_ retaliation.

A little past that, at 5 o’clock, was the third plane. The one that seemed content to just circle the area but not intervene with John and Nick’s duel. It hadn’t even fired a shot yet.

Come to think of it, Rook hadn’t said anything at all since the church.

“Don’t worry, this won’t last much longer,” Nick’s voice crackled over the radio. As if to make good on the promise, the yellow plane banked hard to its left and began an intercept course with John’s own.

No worries, he’d just turn to meet the threat, and hopefully strafe that arrogant man out of the sky once and for all. John twisted the secondary throttle to yaw to the right, but the vehicle did not respond. He threw his gaze back behind the cockpit - _don’t tell me the rudder gave out too…_ \- and all he could see was billowing smoke and a liquid escaping into the air from a busted fuel line.

Failing that, he’d just have to roll the plane clockwise then pitch up instead. But the primary throttle wasn’t generating a response from the ailerons either. He was a sitting duck on a fixed path.

Muttering you’re himself under his breath. “Wonderful. Oh this is just-“

_BrrrrRRRRRRRR_

That horrible sound of being on the wrong side of a machine gun returned, and with it came a loud cacophony of metal piercing metal. As the barrage ended and Nick zoomed past overhead and to the left, John’s plane gave a sickening lurch it had never exhibited before and he could tell that the last third of the plane had detached completely. The remaining part of the chassis began to nosedive and started producing that awful droning sound of an aircraft’s final moments before its sudden reacquaintance with the earth.

John quickly flipped his radio back to the open channel broadcast and held the button down. “No, _no!_ I’ve had an accident, I’m going down! Mayday! Can anyone?...”

The dashboard went dark as the forward power supply gave out. Looking forward past the front propeller all he could see was the quickly approaching ground.

Cursing his bad luck at losing the fight and his favorite plane - _to Nick_ fucking _Rye!_ \- he checked that his parachute was secured to his back one last time before prying the emergency canopy hatch loose and jumping out. Instantly the temperature dropped as the high altitude winds robbed him of his warmth, five thousand dollar custom coat notwithstanding. He let himself get some distance from the careening plane before yanking the cord across his chest and opening the parachute behind him. With a strong tug, his velocity slowed and he was able to control his descent.

Moments later a small explosion beneath him resulted from his plane crashing into a wooded area, but John paid no attention to it. He was more focused on the third plane that had been nearby but disengaged for the entire encounter. He supposed he should be glad Rook didn’t join in, but John still wished the deputy had said _something_ over the radio, or just interacted at all. Even now the third plane was offensively far away, as if satisfied to merely spectate John’s defeat without participating in it. That was almost more insulting.

 _He didn’t want to fight me._ It was a realization that left John feeling conflicted.

What left no room for conflicting thoughts however was the returning sound of an approaching propeller behind him.

In his harness, John peered over his left shoulder as best he could. There was that yellow blight against the perfect blue sky again, arcing high above him.

There was no way Nick didn’t see him.

_He’s just waiting to see where I land so he can tell the rest of the sinners on the ground._

The plane began to pitch its nose down, as if to line up perfectly with John’s body.

_He shouldn’t have to do that to keep sight of me._

Spoilers flared out to decelerate the plane, but it maintained its course. A shot was being prepared.

_Oh no._

_BrrrrRRRRRRRR_

An individual man suspended in the air by a parachute was by no means a large target, certainly not as large as a plane, but that didn’t mean John didn’t make for a difficult one. Bullets whizzed by his profile impossibly fast and as Nick’s plane zoomed past and the parachute was still intact the reason was immediately obvious: he wasn’t aiming for it. With that many shots fired however, a few were bound to find their mark.

The rest of the descent was a blur as John cried aloud, curled forward and grabbed at his abdomen in blinding pain. While most of the barrage had missed, two bullets had gone clean through him, entering near his spine and exiting out of his lower stomach, that much was obvious. But beyond that he couldn’t assess the damage until he was on the ground.

It was a rough landing, to say the least.

A sprained ankle or two was nothing compared to the all-encompassing pain that seized his lower back and stomach, but at least he wasn’t tangled up in the parachute and was face-up, lying on his back in some wooded area that didn’t seem to be close to any roads or buildings. All he could do was weakly press down on his stomach and wince in a poor attempt to stymie the bleeding and hope a patrol of faithful found him. But even then, nothing short of hospital-grade attention and a medical miracle would save him now. In all likelihood he was going to bleed out on the ground here, somewhere in the backwoods of a state he wasn’t from and didn’t claim and didn’t even really want to come to in the first place. It was only Joseph’s promise of rebuilding their family that had convinced John to get involved with the Project at all, and what did he have to show for it now?

A short while later, he could hear what sounded like another plane slamming into the ground in the distance. John allowed himself to believe that he had damaged Nick’s plane badly enough during the fight to force him down out of the sky as well, even if he wasn’t around to see it.

He strained his ears for signs of anything, but for a stretch all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing and intermittent coughs as well as the occasional birdsong or sound of the forest. He hadn’t heard the footsteps until their owner was barely ten feet away.

“Oh, _John…”_ He looked up and to his left to see Rook lower his shotgun and wince at the sight before him.

_I still don’t know how he moves around that quietly._

It took a level of self control he didn’t know he still possessed to not respond with ‘Bold and Brave.’ Instead John forced a grin for his… He didn’t know what the word for it was, ‘sometimes enemy, sometimes friend, sometimes fuckbuddy’?

“Sorry to disappoint you, Deputy, looks like Mister Rye stole your glory.” Rook couldn’t find the humor in it and looked genuinely concerned. John honestly hadn’t expected anything more than a callous and detached reaction, especially after the silent treatment he’d been given over the past hour or so. He certainly didn’t _deserve_ the deputy’s pity, yet there it was, plain as day.

Rook slung his shotgun over and crouched down at John’s side, reaching forward tentatively with a hand. “Let me take a look.”

“Don’t bother,” John dismissed. It didn’t stop Rook from trying however.

Gently, he pulled John’s hands away from the wound and took it all in. John, feeling embarrassed for whatever reason, focused his eyes on the cloudless sky, but he didn’t have to be looking at the deputy to guess his expression at the moment. He was a goner; this was far beyond anything a newly-hired cop was trained to deal with. Hell, even a veteran EMT would be scratching their head at the situation.

When John finally lowered his eyes back to ground level, he could make out the fresh tattoo he had inked into the deputy’s chest back at the church poking out from under the torn shirt. Rook hadn’t bothered to re-button the top of the shirt back up and John mentally scolded himself for noting how good he pulled off the look. The skin around the tattoo was still red and swollen with irritation, but more worrying was how crooked the ‘H’ in ‘WRATH’ had come out. It was almost embarrassing, and not at all indicative of John’s usual penmanship. He hoped Rook would get it touched up at some point.

_What’s one more regret to throw onto the pile?_

Pulling his gaze away from the expanse of skin he’d gotten to know intimately over the past few weeks, he caught Rook scanning his body before resting his eyes on the key lying on John’s chest, then looking up to its owner guiltily.

John raised the key, displaying it with a bloodied hand. “Looking for this, Wrath?,” he taunted with his insult-turned-pet name.

Rook said nothing, instead clenching his jaw and letting the shame on his face do the talking for him.

He was dying anyway, and John had failed Joseph a while ago, he had already made peace with that. Not only had he failed to bring in and convert the loose deputy that was wreaking havoc on the entire Project, but he had instead somewhat befriended and even bedded the said enemy for weeks. Rather than wait around to become just another corpse Rook would be forced to loot from, John saved him the trouble and removed the cord around his neck that the key was tied to. When he offered it to Rook, he got a confused look in return, but then the deputy reached out for it.

Not knowing what came over him, John seized Rook’s wrist with his free hand as they both held onto the key. He should have used that moment to scold the deputy, the man who was destroying everything he and his family had been working towards for the past several years, the man who was damning the innocent lives he was claiming to save. He should have scorned him for not believing in Joseph’s visions, for being a hypocrite for claiming to want peace. He should have told him exactly why he was going to hell.

That’s not what came out.

“Stay with me.” It landed somewhere halfway between a command and a question, lacking the usual authority and confidence John spoke with. But it had the desired effect. Rook blinked in surprise, but nodded and lowered their hands down onto John’s chest, not letting go.

“Yes. Of course.” Knowing full well that it was going to hurt, John still let himself chuckle softly at the acquiescence.

“Oh, _now_ you have no problem saying it,” he quipped. Rook huffed and flashed that grin, that annoyingly handsome grin, and John grinned right back. It was almost like one of their late-night ‘ceasefires’ again. But of course Nick Rye had to ruin the moment.

The radio at Rook’s hip began buzzing with chatter. “Rook, you down there? I lost sight of you. I think you’re close to where he landed but I’m not sure-”

Slowly, but deliberately, the deputy reached back and turned the radio off. John would have kissed him right there for that alone if he could raise himself up without shouting in pain.

“Hope you’re ready to listen to him brag about how he killed _John Seed_ until the end of your days.” Normally he would’ve put a little more venom into the delivery, but the fight and anger was seeping away from him, like the blood leaking from the small of his back and into this foreign soil. Rook drew his eyebrows together, stressed.

“He was pretty mad. Did you really have to cut him up like that?”

“No,” John admitted. “No, that was personal. We have history…” He didn’t elaborate; there wasn’t enough time for that, and he didn’t want to spend his last moments retelling of yet another failed friendship. Thankfully, Rook didn’t press the matter.

“Is that what you were gonna do to me?,” he asked, almost timidly.

“No.” _I would never hurt you_ almost left his lips, but John caught himself first. “There are other ways to atone.”

“Hmmm.” Rook gazed away at nothing in particular, taking on that distant and disinterested expression he adapted whenever John started waxing on theology. John winced at himself and didn’t want to lose his sole audience member over something that didn’t matter anymore.

“You couldn’t have done me a solid up there and pepper a few shots at Nick ‘accidentally’?,” he teased. Rook’s eyes met his again and he sheepishly ran a free hand over the back of his neck, not realizing he had smeared some of John’s blood along it in doing so.

“I don’t know that I could’ve, I’m not as good of a pilot as you two are. Hell, I’m just glad I didn’t manage to crash myself before I could see what you two were doing.”

Loss of blood notwithstanding, a question formed in John’s mind.

“Where _is_ your plane? How’d you get here so fast?”

“I ditched it when I saw you falling,” Rook explained nonchalantly.

“You jumped out of a flying plane for me?,” John deadpanned. “And you call _me_ dramatic.”

Rook smirked and forced a chuckle. “I don’t even have a pilot’s license.”

“Then why did you jump in a plane to come after us?” At this, Rook’s face fell again.

“I was hoping to stop Nick from… doing something like this….”

“But you said nothing up there,” John pointed out. “You didn’t try to stop him at all.”

Rook said nothing, again using his silence to convey the message, as he so often did. He didn’t _help_ Nick either, and John acknowledged that internally. From the deputy’s perspective, someone else was doing his dirty work for him, and it was becoming evident that he likely wouldn’t have done anything at all to John if left to his own devices. Ironically, inaction was the most productive approach.

Still, he wanted to _know._

“If it was just you and me up there… would you have shot me down?,” John asked. It took the deputy a few moments to form an answer.

Unable to look at John as he spoke, “I feel like I’m supposed to say ‘yes’...”

“Buuut you’ve always had trouble with that word around me,” he teased. Again, he was rewarded with a huff and a weak smile. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see that smile for much longer, so John was willing to say whatever he needed to to coax it out of the deputy.

At some point during this talk, their hands had shifted and John realized that Rook was no longer holding onto the key. Instead, he was just keeping his hand in place, interlocked with John’s own, resting on his chest. Rook emanated a warmth, full of life, that John could not return with his weakened circulation, but he was still thankful for the shared body heat. It was an intimate gesture that merely two months ago both of them would’ve found impossible.

“This was always going to end poorly,” John whispered. Whatever ‘this’ was, whatever it would have eventually morphed into.

“You don’t know that,” Rook immediately shot back. It wasn’t every day that a Herald was challenged, but Rook was a sinner, _the_ sinner after all; doubt was what kept him going.

John didn’t have it in him to launch into a lecture about faith right then. He sighed and fought back an eye roll.

“Alright... best-case scenario, what else could have happened?,” he asked. Rook, who had been squatting down this whole time, took the moment to adjust his posture to sit cross-legged at John’s side, making a point to never let go of his hands. If any of the faithful or even any of the sinners showed up at that moment, it would have been a difficult scene for either of them to explain.

“I guess… Joseph realizes people are going to keep getting hurt if he doesn’t step down so he turns himself in and lets me arrest him finally.”

John immediately frowned. “So he can go to jail?” Rook smiled defensively.

“No, of course not. A _certain lawyer_ gets most of the charges tossed due to lack of credible evidence and unbiased witnesses. Joseph and his family walk with slaps on the wrist and they leave the county forever to avoid vengeful locals. Oh, also the apocalypse never happens.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. And then the new deputy-slash-local celebrity… also leaves.”

Maybe it was due to the blood loss, but John felt himself interested enough to indulge the man at his side. “Now why would he do that?” Rook shrugged.

“He decides Hope County is a little too exciting for him. Maybe once things cool down he reconnects with the star lawyer from the trial of the century and they get to know each other a little better. Move in together, and they get to… you know...”

 _Fall in love._ There was a strange comfort in knowing that Rook also didn’t allow himself to come anywhere near the word, also knowing he had no right to. But John had no qualms about it anymore, not now.

He didn’t recall when it started, but John realized he was smiling. “Okay,” he prompted Rook to continue.

“Then they move to some bougie beach town. On the east coast, _obviously,”_ he stressed.

That last line was such a ridiculous addition that hurt John as much as it humored him. Was Rook from the east coast originally, or did he just prefer it? For the past six or seven weeks John had been sneaking away at night under the guise of inspecting damaged silos or overseeing incoming supply deliveries, only to discreetly meet this man for late-night trysts that he was realizing he knew so little about. The more terrifying thing though was realizing that he _wanted_ to know more about him.

Still, John laughed despite himself, and soon after descended into a painful coughing fit. Rook could only watch on apologetically but when John could compose himself again he wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, determined not to kill the mood.

“And what would they do in a bougie east coast beach town?,” he asked, as if he weren’t on death’s doorstep. For whatever reason, Rook soldiered on and obliged him.

“Well... the lawyer becomes a real estate attorney, selling million-dollar beach homes and getting huge commissions. The deputy gets a cushy job with the local PD, catching tourists at speed traps during the summer and doing nothing but collecting a paycheck during the off-season. But they do go to the beach, a lot.”

Dropping all pretense about who they were speaking about, John said, “This may not surprise you but I’m not much of a beach person.” Rook shrugged again.

“Maybe not at first, but I think over time you’d grow to like it. I could see you hiding under an umbrella, burying yourself in some new book while you wait for me to get out of the water.”

“You’d be in the water?,” John asked with a sarcastic eyebrow raise.

“Of course, I love swimming. I’m always the first one in and last one out.”

And there it was. Some new nugget of information John had earned. Deputy Rook loved swimming at the beach. And somehow that fact now seemed more important and more valuable than the ruined jacket he wore or the custom sunglasses somehow still resting on his head or even that whole ranch compound John had carefully siphoned money away from the Project from to build.

Not wanting the talk to end, he asked, almost desperately, “And then what?”

“Later on we’d go back to our four-bed, four-bath, three-thousand square foot house and make dinner,” Rook stated matter-of-factly. Again, the specifics came out of nowhere and John wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but he refrained from doing so; he wasn’t sure his body could handle it again.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he observed with a faint voice. Rook shifted in his position again and leaned forward earnestly, holding both of John’s hands with both of his own.

“Maybe we could invite some friends over. Maybe my family or your brothers even.”

John could almost see the scene playing out in his mind. The summer sun setting on the side of the house after a long day on the beach, brightening a kitchen busy with bodies and activity. Joseph, helping prepare something at the island - because of course they were going to have an island - Jacob, probably keeping to himself at the grill outside. Various imagined friends and members of Rook’s family chatting and laughing. Spending a post-dinner drink on a balcony with Rook pressed up beside him enjoying the breeze coming off the water. No Project, no prophecies of doom, no murder or atoning or problems with the law. Just… _living._ He always suspected he’d spend his last moments thinking of his family. But this was an entirely different context that he was surprised to find he didn’t mind at all.

It was domestic. It was pedestrian. It was everything John would have laughed at someone for claiming to want.

And it was _nice._

John rapidly blinked away a sudden wetness in his eyes unsuccessfully and swallowed down a rising feeling of _something_ with his tightened throat.

“I would’ve liked that.”

Rook put on an absolute house of cards of a smile that threatened to collapse into a frown at any moment. He looked back at John with his own glassy eyes.

“Me too.”

Rook never let go of his hands.

* * *

It took John another few minutes to die. They didn’t say much else after discussing the hypothetical best-case scenario. No last trading of barbs and insults, no final confessions of any feelings. Just a mutual, tacit lamentation of a missed opportunity between them. Yet another victim of the conflict they were on opposite sides of.

Being this close to the man’s side, it would’ve been harder for Rook to not notice when John’s chest finally stopped moving. It wasn’t a dramatic or drawn out death, just a subtle, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it ordeal. Nothing at all like the man himself.

He drew in a deep breath - almost feeling guilty that he was still able to do so - held it, then released a ragged and shaky sigh. Much as he hated it, there was still work to be done. He reached back to his hip and flicked his radio on again, immediately catching the middle of Mary May’s tirade.

“-uck do you _mean_ you can’t see him, you’re in a goddamn _plane,_ Nick!”

“I’m saying, ‘I. Don’t. See. Him.’ He bailed on his plane and parachuted down, but I lost track of him once-“

Rook brought the radio to his mouth and pressed the talk button. “This is Deputy Rook.” Kept it simple. It was barely midday and his voice already sounded exhausted and rattled, but he didn’t care. Mercifully, Nick didn’t comment on it.

“Dep! Holy shit, you freaked us out there! What’s, uh… what’s going on down there? Did you find him?”

He looked down at John’s body, resting in a gentle, bloodied repose with a sickly pale tone that didn’t suit him. Pressing down on the button again, he responded to Nick’s question with a terse, “Yeah, I found him.”

“He dead?”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

“Well good. Spit on that son of a bitch for me, will ya?”

It was Mary May’s voice that followed next. “Nick, you need to land and get that chest looked at, the deputy can handle it from here. Right, Dep?”

“Yeah, I’ll head up to the bunker in a little bit. Just need a moment.” There was another telling pause before Mary May responded.

“Sure. Just be careful, that place’ll be crawling with peggies in no time.”

The channel went quiet after some formalities were exchanged and Rook knew why. He knew of the rumors behind his back; why even though he spent so much time in Holland Valley, most of the damage being carried out against the cult was happening in the other regions. Why out of all the Heralds and even Joseph, it was John who seemed to target the deputy the most with his broadcasts. Why no one could ever seem to get a hold of Rook some nights.

Let them say whatever they wanted.

He felt like he should cry, felt like he wanted to, and then felt guilty for feeling that way. But he couldn’t bring himself to allow it. John was not a good man; he kidnapped and hurt and killed people, indisputably. But wasn’t Rook guilty of those same things?

Maybe that’s why they got along.

Or maybe they were just naturally compatible people. Maybe they would’ve gotten along in another life, a world without Eden’s Gate. It was certainly plausible; once you got him away from his followers and steered the conversation away from religion or philosophy, Rook was surprised to find that John had a dry and legitimate sense of humor. Of course that only came out during the wind down after the sex, once they both had grown more comfortable with the extremely fragile arrangement they fell into. But those moments of just sniping good-natured insults and jokes at each other until the sun came up had been growing more frequent lately.

No longer.

Gently, with more reverence than he usually applied when taking things from the dead, Rook removed the blue-tinted sunglasses from John’s head. He debated wearing them himself for a moment, but decided against it and opted to fold the arms and tuck them into his front shirt pocket, just above his heart. The rest of the resistance and no doubt Joseph himself would probably view it as a sort of triumphant trophy he’d claimed from John, but in truth he just wanted something physical to remember the man by.

Mary May was right though, the spot wasn’t safe and Rook would be a fool not to heed her warning, even more of a fool than he’d already been for getting into this situation. He wanted to place a marker, maybe leave some way to find and revisit the site later, but there was no time for that unless he wanted to risk getting captured by peggies again. Instead he tried committing the surrounding area to memory, but it was just another nondescript stretch of nature in Hope County that could be mistaken for any other.

Rook stood upright, slung the bunker key and its cord around his neck and dusted off his pants. He gave John a final glance, hoping against hope that the past hour had been some elaborate ruse and the Baptist would suddenly spring to his feet full of life again, but knowing he wouldn’t. It felt wrong, leaving his… _whatever_ John was to him, exposed out in the wild like this, but there was nothing for it.

“Goodbye, John,” he croaked quietly.

He then turned towards what he believed to be north, towards John’s bunker nestled in the hills, where Hudson had been kept waiting long enough. When he had exited the small clearing, Rook passively reached up and felt for the sunglasses tucked away in his shirt pocket and was relieved to find that they were still there.

Maybe he’d wear them to the beach one day.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: *claims to want fiction with happy endings*  
> Also me: *writes this*
> 
> I’m also a big fan of the “John was actually close friends with the Ryes when he first moved to Hope County” fan theory which is why I think they seem to have particularly strong beef and interactions with each other. That’s why I tried to reflect a really bitter falling out here between the two pilots, hopefully that landed. (Ba-dum Tss)
> 
> Was John a little out-of-character here? Perhaps, but I think actively dying and knowing that you're actively dying can go a long way towards humbling a man.
> 
> It feels super strange publishing this one-and-done piece, but also kinda relieving that I don't immediately have to start banging out the next chapter. Maybe I should do more one-shots? Anyways, let me know what you thought.


End file.
